Tomorrow Will Be Kinder
by NoTimeToStop
Summary: [Tag 4x09: "After."] A few little words spoken by Carl in the dead of night make Rick realize just how important it is he stay alive.


_**This is a tag to episode 4x9 "After." This is one of my favorite episodes in the series, and the scene where Carl thinks he has to 'put down' his father just about killed me. We need more Rick-Carl father-son fanfics on here! Please review, friends!**_

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 **Tomorrow Will Be Kinder**

Rick didn't know what was worse: the constant fear that he was going to fail his son, or the defeat he heard in Carl's voice that night.

They had been at each other's throats since the fall of the prison. They had already lost so much, and yet there was always the capacity to lose more. But in the smoke and the bullets, the fires and the advancing hordes of walkers, they had found each other. They always found each other. The first home they had had in nearly two years – God, could it be that long since he had laid with his wife in their own bed, Carl in the room down the hall, safely tucked into Superman pajamas and surrounded by comic book posters? – and their family dispersed in the chaos. They had no idea who was alive and who was dead. Except Judith. They had found her bloodstained carrier – empty. Maybe it was better that way. He couldn't have endured seeing what zombies and mercenaries had done to his precious daughter. Maybe, he thought grimly, he should have listened to Lori's concerns on the farm: what life could their little baby have in this new world? What had Rick condemned her to?

He didn't have time to think about that now. He had to focus on the child he still had.

Carl broke. His boy, his strong boy, was broken at the sight of his sister's blood. It was a relief, in a way, to know that Carl was able to feel again. He had almost lost him once before to the darkness this world had created inside. He would not allow Carl to be lost again.

Rick had pulled Carl away, and they had stumbled onto the road. Walking. They were back to walking. Ironic that they had dubbed the zombies 'walkers,' when the survivors were the ones who seemed to do the most walking – and running. Carl stayed several lengths ahead of him. Rick shuffled along, not sure of the full extent of his wounds, ignoring the pain as best he could. He could see the tense muscles of Carl's shoulders through his shirt, the stiffness of his back. Damn it, why wouldn't the boy just listen to him? Why was Carl shutting him out? Why now, when they most needed each other? Why wouldn't he just _talk_ to him?

Their style of conversation had been reduced to yelling. Carl was making it damn near impossible for Rick to fulfill his basic duties as a father – keeping his son fed and protected. He was angry and sullen; he was stubborn, and those things would make him reckless and stupid; and recklessness could get you killed. Carl thought the mark of strength was being able to accomplish everything on his own; how could Rick explain to him that the true source of strength was being able to rely on other people? How could Rick get through Carl's thick-head long enough to explain _anything_ without shouting and throwing bags of food at him?

He missed Lori on days like these. He always missed her – the day she died, a hole had opened inside him, a chasm so wide and full of pain, he knew his heart would never be the same again – the grief was always there, a constant throbbing, a quiet soundtrack to his life, but the loss was acute during these kind of moments. He and Carl were a lot alike, he could see that now, and at times the similarities frightened him. They were hindrances that kept him from communicating with Carl; they were burdens on Carl's shoulders that made him feel he had to be a leader, like his father; Carl was learning he had to do everything himself and keep all his thoughts and emotions bottled up inside.

Lori had been good at getting Carl to talk. Even when he was a baby, she'd had a way with him, a knack for quieting him in the middle of the night, for calming his nightmares and fears. She could see inside him in a way that Rick couldn't. She could always find the right words. She was a light in Carl's life; all the goodness Rick saw in his son, he attributed to his wife. How was he supposed to raise their son without her? How could she have left them alone? He had failed her: he hadn't protected Judith. The baby was dead, and Lori's death had been in vain.

He was going to fail her again. He was going to lose Carl.

Rick was trying. God knew he was trying. But it wasn't enough. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he fought, it was never enough.

Carl always walked ahead of him, and the distance between them felt like miles. Rick didn't know how to close it.

They bunkered down in a nice neighborhood, in a nice white home with shutters and a fence, like out of a magazine ad. Despite everything, Rick couldn't help but feel awkward, even now, camping out in someone else's house. He could hear the walls whispering at night, telling stories of the people who had once ghosted these rooms, their belongings just waiting for them to return and love them again – like the magical talking appliances in _The Brave Little Toaster._ (He had watched that movie with Carl when he was about 4 or 5 years old. He had found it vaguely uncomfortable, their use of the term "master" and a talking heated blanket. Carl had been traumatized by the scene when the air-conditioner attempts to wrench itself from the window and 'dies.' Rick had dropped the film off at a second-hand thrift store the very next day. He wondered if Carl remembered, if he remembered the way he had cuddled in his father's lap, and made him double-check the AC unit in the living room for any signs of life.)

Fighting had dissolved into stony silence, but Rick was glad to see Carl curled up on the floor near the couch, instead of holing up alone in another room. Usually he waited until he heard Carl's breathing slow and steady before he allowed himself to drift off, but as soon as his eyes closed he fell into a deep sleep that would have made the undead jealous.

He slept, but it was void and dreamless. He was light, yet heavy. He could feel his damaged body sunken into the couch cushions. Yet his brain was disconnected. He was floating in blackness, his thoughts incoherent. He forgot his own existence. But from a faraway distance, muffled, tinny, and tiny, as if he were shouting through a tin can came Carl's voice, begging him to wake up. Wake up, wake up! But he couldn't remember how. Rick tried to swim to the surface of consciousness, but the harder he tried, the more he was pulled under, until he felt he would drown in the waves of his unconsciousness, the mysterious blackness of his traitorous brain that promised to turn against him the moment of his death. The ticking time-bomb in his head. He needed to fight against it. He needed to be there for Carl. He was aware of his son's voice again, biting and resentful. He couldn't catch the words, swirling around him in a spiteful storm, but he knew he probably deserved them.

Time passed liquidly. He knew neither the passing of hours or minutes; time itself was meaningless. A man-made construct that had fallen with the rest of the world's infrastructure when the Apocalypse began. Slowly, feeling returned, and the physical pain. His consciousness stirred and reconnected. He could hear breathing to his left. Subdued sniffles. His fingers twitched. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinded by the darkness. He blinked. He returned to himself. Inhale, air into his lungs in raspy breaths. He opened his mouth to speak, but his throat was dry and hoarse. His son's name on his lips deteriorated into a confused groan. "Damn it. Oh, shit." He could see his son's shape, scuttling backwards away from him. The dim light filtering into the house cut across Carl's face, and he saw his wide, fearful eyes. No. He was reaching for his gun. He didn't understand, couldn't see. He thought his father was one of _them._ Had to warn Carl. Not safe. He croaked. Words escaped him. His head was pounding; the pain shot white dots through his head that mingled with the darkness. He reached out. Waves of agony traveled up his rib-cage. He hoped he hadn't broken anything.

Carl was pushed back against the side of an over-sized upholstered chair. He had his gun, but it shook in his hand. His aim trembled. "Come on. Come on. Come on. Come on." Rick couldn't see the tears, but he could hear them in his son's voice. He didn't want Carl to cry. He rolled off the couch, desiring to comfort his son, to tell him they were going to be alright. As long as they were together, they would always be alright. False promises.

A sigh. The gun tapped hollowly against the floor. "I can't." Defeat: the most heartbreaking sound he had ever heard. "I was wrong. Just do it."

"Carl." The word cracked his throat sorely as it emerged; he was scared his son wouldn't hear, but he did. "Don't go outside. Stay safe." It was a command. It was a plea.

Rick collapsed into his son's lap. Carl cradled his head, and touched his forehead to his father's. Warm skin against warm skin. Life throbbing in the veins beneath flesh. The same disease hidden dormant, waiting, in their skulls. But more than that, the promise of life, now, while they had time. The reassurance of love. "I'm scared," Carl admitted, but his father was already lost to the seas of unconsciousness again. "I'm scared. I'm scared."

The world seemed only marginally less terrifying in the morning. The sunlight helped to dispense some of the fear, though it did not dissipate the creatures of nightmares. Carl's courage, but not his obstinacy, from the day before returned. If he was going to die, he wanted it to happen in the light of day. He wanted to see death coming. He sat quietly in communion with his father, enjoying his presence beside him, the sweet smell of his scent: sweat and unwashed bandages, earth and something wholly unique to his dad – a thick, reassuring scent, like leather gun belts and soft blankets, flashlights in the night, and campfires and fresh grass in the woods on innocent, happy summer days of Junes past.

Rick was quiet. His head felt fuzzy and woozy, covering the previous day in a layer of amnesiac blur. He faked ignorance. Common practice in his home growing-up: avoidance. After the screaming matches between his parents, the hurtful words his father sometimes hurled in his direction, the mistakes made and words – weapons of temporary satisfaction and eternal regret – spoken, the practice had been the same: pretend it didn't happen. Swallow it down, whatever unresolved feelings you might have. File them away and allow them to fester, growing like untamed weeds into a tangle of paranoia and resentment, self-doubt and fear. But never, _never,_ let on that such words were spoken. That you heard.

Against his better judgment, contrary to the little feminine voice whispering inside his head (Lori, where are you?), advising him to deal with this issue now, right now, Rick documented the previous night among the list of events he would never speak of again, and feigned forgetfulness. Carl followed his father's lead, and did not repeat the desperate words he had spoken into the hungry darkness. It was best if they were never repeated.

But Rick had heard and he couldn't forget. He couldn't forget the terror in his son's azure eyes. The grief in his voice, the hopeless: "I can't. Just do it." _I give up._ If the rest of his family was dead, why shouldn't he surrender to his fate? Why shouldn't he let his father's rotting hands – the first that held him as a baby, that wiped the tears from his eyes, that bandaged his knees when he fell off a bicycle, that lifted him onto broad shoulders – tear into his skin and organs? Why not let the man who had given him life take it away in the end?

The thought made Rick sick. The idea that he could do that to his own child…No, he could never let that happen.

Carl's sense of defeat terrified him, the willingness with which he surrendered himself to his loss. Without his family, without a friend in the world, what reason had he to live? Because he had a chance. _A chance._ Wasn't that what Rick was always saying? If there was a chance for a better tomorrow, shouldn't Carl try to reach for it? He needed hope. He needed to believe. They were still alive – that had to be a sign, right? There was goodness in the world, even now. Rick knew that. He believed. He was reminded every time he looked into the face of his son.

Rick ran a hand through his son's shaggy hair. Carl smiled at him the way teenage boys do, to let you know you have done something silly and embarrassing, and shook his hair back into place. Rick laughed to convey his love. Carl's defeat had terrified him. Rick was resolved: he couldn't die, no matter what. No matter how many body parts he had to chop off or people he had to lose. He had to stay alive, for Carl. So he could see that precious, sunny smile. So he could make sure others had the fortune to see it too.

But what could he say? What could he do? Rick was a hypocrite. He knew it, even without saying. If anything happened to Carl, if he lost the last person on earth who was a part of himself, the last link to his humanity, to the man he was before, it was game over for Rick. He would be broken beyond repair. You can't live without a beating heart.

He would let walkers feast on him.

Rick finally understood how Clara felt – and that was the most terrifying realization of all.


End file.
